Dark Legends Page 2

  As Kira approached, the evil thing dropped Elish to the ground, stepping over her as he stalked forward to face the oncoming woman—who, Elish now saw from her position on the ground, was just as fearsome as the dark terror in her own wonderful way, strong and brave and bold.

  “Kira Vantala,” the phantom said, his voice a serpentine drawl. “I admit that I’m surprised. Of all those who might have survived the purge . . . I did not imagine a weakling such as you to be among them.”

  “Then that was your mistake,” said Kira, “for the dark side has forever underestimated me.”

  At that the phantom laughed, lurching forward, grasping for her throat. Kira, though, knew the terror’s tricks of old, and as he went for her she raised the hilt of her weapon and ignited a blade so brilliant and bright that the phantom cringed, shrinking back and hissing like a cornered snake, his arms raised to his face in appalled shock. Such was the intensity of the light that it seemed to sear the creature’s very soul, and he stumbled in deference, driven back by the blade’s power.

  Stern-faced, Kira gestured with a wave of her arm and the monster was cast aside, surging through the air to slam into a tumbledown wall, dislodging a shower of dust and debris as he slumped to the ground.

  But as Elish watched, the phantom rose from amongst the debris, hunched and crooked and grinning wickedly. He moved swiftly, flitting amidst the shadows like a wraith, almost impossible to see. Kira twisted, her glowing blade raised, seeking him out. She could not keep up, however, and Elish screamed a warning as she saw him dart forward, striking Kira hard in the back. The woman went down, the hilt of her weapon rolling away across the ground, its fizzing blade extinguished. The wicked creature fell upon her, his savage teeth glistening, but Kira was fast, and she rolled, spinning up onto her feet, her arm outstretched, fingers open.

  Elish saw that the hilt of the woman’s sword lay twitching on the ground, as if desperate to answer its master’s call. It was trapped, however, beneath a wooden beam, which had fallen when Kira had tossed the dark terror into the wall.

  By then, the phantom had pressed his attack, looming tall and sinister over his prey. Elish could see the desperation on Kira’s face, the fear that she, too, had felt in the evil thing’s presence. She knew what she had to do. Her heart hammering in her chest, she lurched to her feet and dove for the hilt of Kira’s sword, pulling it free from where it was lodged beneath the beam. As soon as it was in her grasp, the smooth metal hilt flew free, leaping from her hand and soaring through the air toward Kira.

  Elish could hardly make sense of what happened next. No sooner had Kira’s fingers closed around the weapon’s hilt than there was a flash of hissing light and the blade swept forth in a wide arc. The phantom hissed in pain, clutching at his chest and dropping to his knees before Kira. With another gesture of her hand, Kira sent the dark terror tumbling backward, crashing through the remains of the temple wall, which seemed to crumble around him, showering him in stone.

  Before she knew it, Kira was at Elish’s side and helping her to her feet. Her leg was smarting from the fall, but she knew she’d played her part and been strong as Kira had shown her. Together, they had defeated the phantom. Never would he return to plague the children of the orphanage again. Finally, they were safe, their nightmare over. Elish sighed in relief.

  However, when the two of them staggered over to examine the dark terror’s remains, they found nothing amongst the pooling shadows but a broken fragment of the wheel he had worn on his back. And when they turned away to begin the slow walk back to the orphanage, Elish was certain she could hear his manic laughter drifting away on the breeze.

  THERE WAS ONCE AN ambassador called Slokin, who was a collector of ancient treasures. So vast was his collection that he had built a repository just to store it, and so undiscerning was his eye that he had filled it top to bottom and had long before lost all sense of what he did and did not own. He had often considered purchasing a droid to properly catalogue the collection but just as often dismissed the idea, for the credits he might spend on a droid would surely be better spent procuring yet more treasures to further enhance the collection.

  So it was that, on a visit to the Outer Rim planet of Batuu, Slokin happened upon a mask in Dok-Ondar’s Den of Antiquities and knew he must have it. It was black and slender, and filigreed with the finest gold, resembling, to Slokin’s mind, nothing so much as a skull. It was like no mask he had ever seen—unique in all the galaxy—and he adored such rarities above all else in his collection.

  As a respected trader in such goods, Dok-Ondar was happy to oblige in this matter—for a suitable price—and yet, despite the risk to his own purse, he issued a dire warning to Slokin regarding the mask. It was a treasure, he claimed, that was not to be taken on lightly, as it was rumored to be cursed and might have grave consequences for the unwary or unworthy who attempted to harness its power.

  Upon hearing this, Ambassador Slokin’s resolve only hardened, for he was not superstitious, and if there was one thing he coveted above even his treasures it was power and influence over others. If the object had led to the downfall of others—well, then it was surely because they had not been strong enough to wield it. Thus, with a final word of warning, the mask passed from the hands of Dok-Ondar and into those of the ambassador.

  For many days following his purchase of the mask, Slokin was forced to carry out his formal duties. Yet all he could think about was the mask and what secrets it might reveal to him when he finally got it home. The anticipation was almost too much to bear.

  So it was that, upon finally returning to his lavish abode, Slokin tasked his adviser, Potniss, with dissuading any callers and threw himself into a full and thorough investigation of the mask. Hours passed, and turning the mask over in his hands, Slokin began to wonder whether the warnings of Dok-Ondar had been naught but superstitious ramblings after all, for he could sense nothing of the power with which the object was said to be imbued. And yet, when he finally placed the mask on his face, almost as an afterthought, the object seemed only too keen to reveal its secrets.

  Sitting amongst the plush cushions of his living chamber, peering through the eye holes of the mask, Slokin at first believed himself to have been somehow transported, for what he saw through the mask was a view of the interior of a vast and opulent palace.

  Perplexed, he lifted the mask from his face, only to discover to his immense relief that he remained in the safety of his own chambers. In returning the mask to his face, though, he found himself back in that distant palace, observing the events that were unfolding in the sumptuous court. He was, he realized, being granted the perspective of the original owner of the mask, as events from long before replayed and the original mask wearer’s life began to unspool before him.

  Intrigued, Slokin peered around in wonder. The audience chamber he found himself in was wondrous: gilded walls of the most florid designs, velvet drapes, and immense stained-glass windows depicting scenes from a mythology with which he was utterly unfamiliar. Courtiers in the finest dress—albeit somewhat old-fashioned by Slokin’s modern standards—milled about the place, sipping from fluted glasses. And there, on a raised plinth at the heart of the proceedings, draped on a golden throne, sat a man who must have been a king or an emperor, so fine were his clothes and so grand the crown that rested on his head.

  Slokin watched, fascinated, as he—or rather, the man in the mask—approached the foot of the throne, peering up at the king with sly, narrowed eyes.

  “Behold,” he said, and Slokin found himself mouthing the words as they were spoken, “I have come to strike a bargain with the king.”

  At this the king looked down on him with amusement. “And what would you have to bargain with?”

  “Your Highness thinks me bold and finds me amusing. Yet in truth I hold the key to his very downfall, and he would be wise to pay me heed.”

  “A threat?” said the king, his tone thunderous. He raised an arm to beckon for his guards.

&nbs
p; “No threat, Your Majesty,” said the mask wearer, stepping up onto the plinth and leaning closer to the king so they might not be overheard. “As I said, a simple bargain. For I will not speak of the secret pact you have made with your enemy . . . if I am suitably rewarded for my loyalty.”

  At this the king paled. “What do you know of this?”

  “Everything there is to be known,” replied the mask wearer. “Everything you should not wish your subjects to know.” He bowed gracefully. “Of course, I have taken the appropriate measures to ensure my safety.”

  The king opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words issued forth.

  “I trust there shall be a suitable title, as well as land?” said the mask wearer.

  The king fixed the mask wearer with the hardest of stares. “A title and land there shall be, and, too, a curse upon your head for such insolence.” But the mask wearer simply laughed and turned away, disregarding the king’s words.

  Chuckling, Slokin removed the mask from his face. He was unsure precisely what he had witnessed, but he was most entertained, and pleased, too, with his treasure. He placed the mask on a special stand in his repository, and having celebrated with wine and sweet cakes, he turned to his bed.

  Yet all night he could not sleep for thinking about the scene he had witnessed. The audacity of the mask wearer was to be heartily admired, and Slokin found himself feeling envious. After witnessing the success of the original mask wearer’s ploy, he was struck by an idea. Might he not follow in the footsteps of greatness? Might he not extract a similar fortune through the very same means?

  That week, he was due to meet with the ambassador of the planet Hadros, an Outer Rim world rich in ore deposits that had not yet been claimed by the First Order. He’d heard tales regarding that very same ambassador—tales the man would not wish to become public knowledge for fear of losing his position. Here, then, was Slokin’s opportunity. If the ploy had worked for the original mask wearer, why should it not also work for him?

  So it was that, when the ambassador arrived later that week to great fanfare, Slokin took great care to ensure the man felt comfortable and disarmed—supplying only the best food, drink, and entertainment; lavishing him with compliments; offering him favorable terms on the import of his goods. All seemed to be going well, with trade deals being agreed on and profit for both nations a certainty.

  It was then that Slokin struck, cornering the ambassador in his quarters after dinner and whispering in his ear, blackmailing him in much the same way as the mask’s former owner had blackmailed the king.

  Disgusted, but unable to deny the rumors, the ambassador reluctantly agreed to Slokin’s terms, and soon after Slokin found himself in possession of a small fortune in minerals and precious metals.

  Slokin, delighted, took this to be a sign that Dok-Ondar’s stories had been right and the mask did, indeed, retain some residual power. The stories of a curse, he knew, meant nothing—they were probably just a reference to the old king’s words. He would certainly not be dissuaded. Events in Slokin’s life had mirrored those in the life of the mask’s original owner. So that very night, as Potniss and the other servants slept, Slokin crept from his bedchamber to the repository, took the mask from its stand, and placed it once more over his face.

  He shivered with relish as the image resolved before his eyes. He was in the suite of a well-to-do person, a middle-aged woman, who—judging by the robes she wore and the chains of office around her neck—appeared to be some kind of politician.

  The mask wearer was sitting on a low couch, his legs crossed, sipping something pink and tasteless from a glass. He watched as the politician paced, agitated, clearly unhappy with something the mask wearer had said. Was he attempting to blackmail her, too?

  “It cannot be done,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “My position—”

  “But consider the possibilities, Madame Secretary,” urged the mask wearer, leaning forward and placing his glass on the table beside another, which Slokin presumed to belong to the woman. “Consider the profit.”

  “But what good are credits if they mean deserting my people? I cannot stand for it. I won’t.” She crossed to the window, peering out at the traffic lanes that buzzed back and forth before her.

  “And that is your final word on the subject?” said the mask wearer.

  “It is.” She did not turn away from the window as she spoke.

  “Very well.” The mask wearer leaned forward again, as if to reclaim his drink, but instead produced a tiny bottle from the sleeve of his coat. Deftly, he unscrewed the cap and upended it above her glass, allowing the clear fluid to trickle into her drink. Then, as swiftly as the bottle had appeared, it was gone.

  The mask wearer stood, collecting both glasses. He walked over to the window, handing the tainted glass to the woman. “Then that is the end of the matter,” he said. “Let us drink to your integrity.” He clinked his glass against hers and then downed his drink. She followed suit, the relief evident on her face.

  For a moment at least.

  Slokin watched, thrilled and scandalized, as the woman clutched suddenly at her throat, her eyes widening with shocked realization. She emitted a wet, gurgling rasp, lurched forward as if to grab at the mask wearer, and then sank to the floor, her body twitching as she died.

  The mask wearer dropped to his knees beside the crumpled form of the woman. Carefully, he lifted the chains of office from around her neck, weighing them in his hands. “It is a heavy burden I take on, Madame Secretary, but I shall do it in honor of you.”

  Silently, Slokin slipped the mask from his face. The mask wearer had progressed in his tactics. This was a bold man indeed! Not only had he blackmailed a king, he had killed to achieve political power and influence. Slokin was breathless with admiration. Here was a man who simply took what he wanted. He allowed no one to stand in his way.

  The mask was showing all this to Slokin, using its power to guide him toward greatness. From that day forth he resolved that he, like the original owner of the mask, would take whatever he wanted, no matter the consequences or the cost.

  That night, Slokin went to his bed harboring the darkest of thoughts. It had worked before—the mask had led him toward great riches. Now it had shown him the way to great power, too. He made his plans, and the following morning, he put them into motion.

  Thus, with a mix of trepidation, nerves, and glee, Slokin set about obtaining a vial of poison—a clear and deadly substance derived from the Achinios weed from the planet Routh. It took nearly three weeks to arrange, during which time Slokin grew increasingly impatient, but sure enough, Potniss proved a loyal servant and the vial was soon pressed into Slokin’s sweaty palm, mere hours before he was due to meet with his superior, Gorson, for a formal review of proposals to build a new spaceship construction yard.

  The man’s pudgy, genial face was flushed upon Slokin’s arrival at his office, so Slokin suggested they take a moment to share a cold drink on the veranda before going over the plans. Gorson was only too pleased to oblige—for he was, in truth, a kindly man who would always see to the comfort of his guests—and sent for his protocol droid to fetch refreshments.

  Slokin’s heart was hammering in his chest, and for the first time since concocting his plan, he began to wonder at the wisdom of it. Did he truly wish to become a killer? Yet the thought of the cool way the mask wearer had set about his task and the promise of the probable rewards was enough to steady his hand as he took the drinks from the returning droid and, careful to act unseen, tipped the vial of poison into Gorson’s glass.

  Then, taking the drinks out onto the veranda, he passed the poisoned glass to the other man and stood back to watch as events played out before him.

  Sure enough, Gorson’s warm smile was soon replaced by a horrible, contorted visage as the poison did its work, causing the man to spasm and convulse as he collapsed on the floor. The old man died peering up at Slokin in shock, clutching at his throat and chest in terror.

/>   Despite the horror of it, all that Slokin could feel was glee at everything that would follow. He took his leave, telling the droid that Gorson wasn’t feeling well and wished to remain undisturbed for a time on the veranda.

  The next day Slokin woke to the news of Gorson’s unfortunate death—of a heart attack—and found himself summoned by the first minister, who, after offering her heartfelt condolences at the sad loss of his friend, asked if he’d be willing to accept a promotion and take on Gorson’s duties. Trying to suppress his smile, Slokin readily agreed.

  Thus, Slokin found himself taking on a grand position within the machine of the government. All his ambitions had finally come true, for he had been granted both riches and power over others.

  Yet Slokin was greedy, and despite his recent gains, that same night he once again crept to his repository and took out the mask, seeking to wear it once more in the hope of procuring even more riches and power.

  Only this time the vision was an altogether different proposition—for in it, he bore witness to the mask wearer’s terrible murder at the hands of a former ally. The original mask wearer had grown too rich and too powerful, and in doing so had made himself a target, inspiring jealousy in those around him, allowing others to covet his treasure and influence. Thus, the ally—a scruffy young boy who had once been a footman and had carried out a great number of tasks for the mask wearer, aiding and abetting his crimes—had sneaked into the mask wearer’s bedchamber and buried a silver dagger in the man’s chest before escaping with the mask, claiming it as his own.

  Fearful, Slokin tore the mask from his face and fled to his chambers, panicked that he had seen too much, that in mirroring the success of the original mask wearer’s life, he might, too, mirror his fall. Was this, then, the curse? Had it been true all along? He barred the doors and allowed no one to enter his rooms but Potniss, his most trusted adviser. Surely, this way he would be safe from harm?